The cook-houses, store-rooms, forges, and workshops were collections of
tilts, poles, rick-cloths, and odd lumber, beavered together as on
service. The officers’ mess was a thin, soaked marquee.
Less than a hundred yards away were dozens of vacant, well-furnished
rooms in the big brick house, of which the Staff furtively occupied one
corner. There was accommodation for very many men in its stables and
out-houses alone; or the whole building might have been gutted and
rearranged for barracks twice over in the last three months.
Scattered among the tents were rows of half-built tin sheds, the
ready-prepared lumber and the corrugated iron lying beside them, waiting
to be pieced together like children’s toys. But there were no workmen. I
was told that they had come that morning, but had knocked off because it
was wet.
‘I see. And where are the batteries?’ I demanded.
‘Out at work, of course. They’ve been out since seven.’
‘How shocking! In this dreadful weather, too!’
‘They took some bread and cheese with them. They’ll be back about
dinner-time if you care to wait. Here’s one of our field-kitchens.’
Batteries look after their own stomachs, and are not catered for by
contractors. The cook-house was a wagon-tilt. The wood, being damp,
smoked a good deal. One thought of the wide, adequate kitchen ranges and
the concrete passages of the service quarters in the big house just
behind. One even dared to think Teutonically of the perfectly good
panelling and the thick hard-wood floors that could——
‘Service conditions, you see,’ said my guide, as the cook inspected the
baked meats and the men inside the wagon-tilt grated the carrots and
prepared the onions. It was old work to them after all these months—done
swiftly, with the clean economy of effort that camp life teaches.
‘What are these lads when they’re at home?’ I inquired.
‘Londoners chiefly—all sorts and conditions.’
The cook in shirt sleeves made another investigation, and sniffed
judicially. He might have been cooking since the Peninsular. He looked
at his watch and across towards the park gates. He was responsible for
one hundred and sixty rations, and a battery has the habit of saying
quite all that it thinks of its food.
‘How often do the batteries go out?’ I continued.
‘’Bout five days a week. You see, we’re being worked up a little.’
‘And have they got plenty of ground to work over?’
‘Oh—yes-s.’
‘What’s the difficulty this time? Birds?’
‘No; but we got orders the other day not to go over a golf-course. That
rather knocks the bottom out of tactical schemes.’
Perfect shamelessness, like perfect virtue, is impregnable; and, after
all, the lightnings of this war, which have brought out so much resolve
and self-sacrifice, must show up equally certain souls and institutions
that are irredeemable.
The weather took off a little before noon. The carpenters could have put
in a good half-day’s work on the sheds, and even if they had been rained
upon they had roofs with fires awaiting their return. The batteries had
none of these things.